Not Knowing
by geasp
Summary: Story set after series four. Patsy's lost and trying to find a way through her heartbreak.
1. Chapter 1

Hi, I'm new here (long time reader, first time poster). Please excuse any teething glitches I invariably likely to make as I learn how to upload. Also,please excuse the lame story description.

**Not Knowing**

As I dress in the murky half-light of the morning, I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror on the wall. In the dim light of my room, I am only partly visible. I stand still, my fingertips frozen against the button I have just fastened on my uniform as I peer at the dark, incomplete image of myself.

Half of me is missing, lost to the darkness.

The bedroom door opens and Trixie glides into the room. Dressed and ready for work, her night gown is draped over her arm, and her wash bag dangles from her wrist.

"Good morning, Patsy," she says, tossing her things onto her bed. A pleasant little puff of her soap and perfume catch at my senses. "How are you today?" her voice is bright and feather light as always.

"Very well, thanks. You?" I hear myself saying with similar smiles and gusto as my friend.

"Fine." She breezes.

We are equally talented liars.

* * *

I have to force myself to eat breakfast. I have to make myself drink the cup of tea that is placed before me. All I want to do is lie in bed and smoke cigarettes. But I will eat something. I will finish off this drink and be pleasant, and go to work. I have to.

Conversation goes on around me as I look at the cold boiled egg that I must somehow stomach. Voices mingle with each other; I catch the different tones and assign them to the bodies that they come from, but I'm not listening to the words. The sounds come into my ears muffled and insubstantial, as though I am lying underwater, and its only when I feel the heel of Barbara's shoe against my ankle that I realise that someone is speaking to me.

"I'm sorry?" I say, not sure what I am apologising for.

Sister Evangelina peers down the table at me. "Have you heard from your friend? I do hope that Miss Busby is improving."

"Oh," I take a breath, to give myself a moment to find a suitable tone of voice. I feel as though everyone is looking at me, expectant of something, even though deep down I know this is not true: the various sounds of breakfast go on regardless; the scrape of butter knives over toast; the chink of cups against saucers; the plink of sugar cubes dropping into tea. "N-no, I haven't heard anything recently. Not since she went back to Wales with her parents."

"She will be in good hands, I'm sure of it," Cynthia smiles at me. She is like a beautiful warm blanket, comforting and safe, but at this moment I feel suddenly, strangely suffocated by her words and I can only nod. I look at the hem of my cardigan sleeve. I cannot think of anything to say.

"Another cup, Patsy?" Trixie cuts in, holding up the teapot as though it were a trophy, her big eyes peering over the lid. I don't have chance to reply before she pours me a cup. I seize it, and keep myself busy with it – sorry, I'm too busy to chat any more, I must drink this up…

"Well, my thoughts are with her. What her family must be going through, I cannot begin to imagine," Sister Evangelina shifts in her seat and runs her hands over her apron, her sign that she's almost ready to leave the table. "I pray for good news soon enough."

I rather think that Sister Evangelina's definition of good news differs very much to mine.


	2. Chapter 2

Hi :) Many thanks for reading this, I really appreciate it!

**2**

I am working in clinic this afternoon. It's too stuffy, too noisy, and too hectic. And it is exactly what I want. I'm glad to have covered this duty to allow Trixie to go to an appointment. An afternoon spent reassuring nervous mothers-to-be and running around after bored, unruly children is a far better prospect than anything else I can think of. I'm glad to be busy, to get on with things - it doesn't do to dwell.

This is my philosophy: if I can keep busy, stay a step ahead of my thoughts, then eventually, they will fade from my mind. Even so, no matter how many extra hours I work, whatever I do to distract myself, there always comes a point when I have to pause, when I have to take a breath, and then, reality catches up with me, furious from having had to pursue me, and intent on making me pay.

My heart is broken and nobody knows.

_You_ don't know it, and that is the very worst thing of all.

I have not seen you for nearly a month. And when I last spoke to you, you did not know me.

I do not know what to do.

Days go by and I am almost senseless to them passing. I drift through life, dazed without you. The gurgling, primitive cries of the babies I deliver, and the exhausted ecstasy I witness on a mother's face when I place their son or daughter in their arms almost rouses me from the fog that surrounds me. In that moment, the agonies of childbirth and the unforgiving deprivation of the East End that frames it is irrelevant. I see the precious bond between mother and baby forge right before my eyes, steely and pure, and I feel life flicker inside me, quivering like a weather-beaten flame. But, as soon as it is there, it is gone again. I need your hands to cup the flame, to protect it and keep it alive.

* * *

It's been a while since I have sat up late with Trixie and Barbara. It hasn't felt appropriate for us to lounge around and make small talk recently. I feel sorry for Barbara, being stuck with Trixie and me for company. Most evenings, the three of us hide behind Trixie's magazines, secretly longing for the telephone to ring or the doorbell to chime and call us out to work; I cannot speak for the others, but I could not tell you a word of what is written on the pages that I stare at.

This late evening soiree has come about by chance, the three of us being brought together by an unusually quiet night in Poplar and a bag of broken biscuits that Barbara bought from the grocers and insists on sharing with us. Instead of alcohol, we drink Horlicks these days, and I cannot help but find Barbara quite endearing, perched on the edge of my bed as she shuffles the paper bag in her hand, searching for a bit of custard cream to dip into her drink.

"Oh look, Trixie, there's half a rich tea in here! Would you like it?" she has a triumphant grin on her face.

"I wonder if someone has a job to smash up biscuits with a hammer just so that the Co-Op can sell them? " Trixie comments. She is laying on her side, propping her head up with one hand, a cigarette between her fingers of the other. There is something playful and glamorous about her tonight that has been missing of late. Lying on her bed in her silk gown, she could as easily be reclining on a chaise longue in a hotel in Paris, or on a film set in Hollywood.

"I hadn't ever thought about it before…it would be quite an interesting job to have, I would think…" Barbara frowns as though seriously pondering the matter.

Trixie's eyes widen, and she throws a bemused look in my direction as Barbara continues to rifle through the bag unawares.

"There's an almost whole digestive here. Patsy, I think you should have it." She holds it out to me as though it were a prized possession. And I don't know why, but I feel a strange tightness in my throat when I thank her. Perhaps I'm overtired.

We have such a curious little arrangement. There's something familiar about sitting cross-legged in our pyjamas and chatting that reminds me of boarding school, but with comfier beds, and much better company: I like Barbara's homely generosity and good nature, and I enjoy Trixie's sense of fun, even if it has been subdued of late. As for me… well, I don't quite know what to say. I can put on a good show of swagger, I can strut around Nonnatus as though were my own house, cracking jokes and looking at the world with a keenly arched eyebrow, but deep down I know I'm not demure and pretty like Trixie, or gentle and kind like Barbara. I lurk somewhere on the peripheral, peering through a chink in my armour.

"I've been thinking about you all day, Patsy," Barbara tells me between sips of her drink. She's holding her mug in both hands, enjoying the warmth of it.

"Really?" I am conscious of the biscuit I am holding; I'm not sure what to do with it. I think I need a cigarette.

"Even when you and I were delivering Mrs Denbigh's twins this morning?" Trixie chirps, "That would explain a lot!"

"No, not then. Of course not! I mean… perhaps between contractions…but, anyway…" Barbara pauses to clear her head and brush crumbs from her dressing gown. "I kept thinking about what happened to Delia, and how far away she is, and how terrible it all is."

"Wales is hardly the end of the earth, Barbara," I hear myself say; though if I'm honest, it almost feels like it is. I really need a cigarette now; I reach for my bedside table, and swap the digestive biscuit for my ashtray.

"I know, but to be there on her own, away from everything she knows - knew. It's just so awful. And it must be hard for you too, Patsy: I can't imagine what I'd do if one of my friends were poorly."

The silence that follows must surely be only a matter of a few seconds, but it feels much, much longer.

"Do you think you might be able to visit her?" Barbara continues.

"I haven't really thought about it." I'm not telling the truth. I lie awake at night and think of little else. "And besides, I wouldn't want to get in the way."

"Patsy! I don't think anyone could ever say you get in the way!" Trixie offers. She wanders over to my bed and sits in the space between Barbara and I. She stubs out her cigarette in the ashtray and places her hand on my knee, and once again I feel my throat constrict. "Perhaps you could write to her parents, and ask them how she is?"

"That's an excellent idea!" Barbara looks truly ecstatic at the thought of it all, while I can only hope that the expression on my face is not the awkward grimace that I feel it may be.

* * *

The next morning, I am sat by the telephone, idly flicking through the pages of the diary when Barbara appears with a cup of tea.

"I've brought you this," she says, placing the cup and saucer down in front of me, "and while its cooling, you can write your letter."

Before I can protest, Barbara is already going through the desk for paper and pen.

It's not that I don't want to write a letter. I simply don't know what to write. I don't know how to begin, how to introduce myself.

Barbara has found some spare writing paper that has the Nonnatus letterhead running across the top. I stare at the lofty old fashioned typescript, waiting to be inspired.

_…I was glad to meet you at the London Hospital, and to be able to put a face to a name that I have heard much about. I am sorry that we met in such circumstances however, and would like to offer my deepest sympathies to you. As a friend and colleague of Delia, I write to ask how she is, and send my very best wishes…_

I read over the letter, wincing at the bland formality of it all, the schoolgirlish tone; I write as though we are mere acquaintances, as though we have only exchanges brief hellos as we pass each other in the street, and I feel embarrassed. But Barbara nods philosophically as she skims over it, and smiles at me when I disappear for a moment to get your address. Both of us double check the interesting spelling of where you live; Barbara tries to enunciate it, but is quickly defeated. I don't attempt it, I don't want to. Instead, I imagine you saying it, your voice low and warm as you speak the words.

I do not expect a rapid response to my letter. When I guide a woman through her labour, who is it that they ask for first? Their husband, and if he is not around, then, once they have finished cursing their absent partner, they ask for their mother, their sister, their aunt. Their family.

That is what I imagine when I think of your parents. There must be an army of family members to talk to, to keep informed. What am I in comparison? I am nothing.

So it is a surprise when, three days later, I arrive back at Nonnatus, my overcoat soaked through from the rain, that a note is waiting for me.


	3. Chapter 3

Hello! THANK YOU SO MUCH for reading this. I'm a bit overwhelmed by all the wonderful support - and I'm very happy. Thank you once again :)

**3**

I wander into the kitchen, the sound of my footsteps drowned out by the rapid thud of my pulse in my ears; the paper that Sister Winifred left for me is tightly concertinaed in my hand. I expect to be undisturbed here: teatime is long gone, and supper is still a distant treat to look forward to. The nuns are at prayers, and the off-duty midwives are free to do as they please. It takes me a moment to register Trixie at the table, hunched over a neglected cup of tea, her head resting against her hand. When we see each other, we pause as though caught out, stupefied by each other's company. Clearly, I wasn't the only one who thought this would be a hideaway. Without thinking, I quickly tuck the note inside my cardigan sleeve before Trixie can see it.

"Patsy!" Trixie says, and her whole demeanour alters from what it was a moment before. "Just got back? I haven't been in long myself. Mrs Cromwell's labour was as long and challenging as we thought it would be." She continues, at once standing up and smoothing down the front of her uniform. "The nuns saved some food for us – only bread and cheese, I'm afraid, but I do believe Sister Evangelina has a secret jar of pickle hidden somewhere,"

She opens and closes several cupboards and drawers without looking at what she's doing. Usually so poised, so self-assured, she seems shrunken somehow tonight. The spark that flashed in her eyes a few nights earlier is extinguished.

My stomach is too knotted to eat, but I take the food anyway, for the sake convention than anything else. I make a show of dining, even though the cheese is sticky in my mouth, like glue, and I almost think that I may not be able to swallow it. I move more of the food around my plate than I actually eat, which is more than Trixie achieves. She studies her plate, looking for something that might excite her appetite, and then pushes it away from her with a sigh.

"Are you all right, Trix?" I venture. I already know the answer, and I know what she will say. We are too alike for our own good.

"Long day, that's all." And she waves her hand dismissively.

A long day is a common complaint in our profession. One shift is never the same as the next. Buoyed along by adrenaline, we dash from call to call, never knowing what we might come up against. We see every human emotion and condition imaginable and work with life's beauty and brutality simultaneously. A situation can switch from joy to despair in one quivering heartbeat; people need us there, they rely on us, and trust us to make everything right. Our uniform is as like a battledress, our medical bag our arsenal, and as we stride into a patient's house, all of our faults and fears are pushed aside: I am no longer Patsy, a humble someone, I am Nurse Mount - infallible, in control, and I thrive on it.

But, at the end of it all, when we return to Nonnatus, jittery and exhausted, we are alone. The quiet old building is at most times a sanctuary, but after a long day, it becomes a hollow, empty place. The adrenaline ebbs away and all the problems, the worries and the fears, come rushing back to taunt us.

Trixie doesn't have to tell me how she feels after a long day, and how it emphasises just how much she misses Tom. She doesn't have to admit how weak she feels because all she wants to do is have a drink.

I understand.

I shouldn't be here tonight. I should be at our flat. I would shut the front door, my world transforming from slate-grey twilight to an amber golden glow. The cosy warmth would touch my face as I shake the rain out of my overcoat in the hallway. You would be there, leaning casually against the wall, your arms loosely folded. You would tell me off for getting drips on the new paintwork. And then you would smile at me, and all would be forgotten. I would let you take my cold hands in yours and lead me into our living room...

"Perhaps I should ask the same of you," Trixie continues, "you look like you've had quite a fright – no offence,"

None taken – because she's right.

The hidden note presses against my wrist. I can almost feel the loops and lines of Sister Winifred's neat handwriting burning into my skin. The message, unbearably concise, repeats in my mind over and over again.

_For the attention of Nurse Mount:_

_Mrs Busby telephoned this afternoon. She will call again tomorrow morning at 11 o' clock. No return telephone number given – Mrs Busby using a friend's telephone._

I can imagine a thousand reasons for your mother to contact me, and all but one of them is either terrible or terrifying.

* * *

The rain is still falling outside. I have listened to it hammer against the bedroom window for so long that I have become almost deaf to it.

I have been curled up in bed for hours, my eyes closed, and for all the world might tell, I am in the middle of a dream. But beneath the sheets, my hands are balled into tight fists, and my body set tense. Tonight, as every night, my mind runs away from me, tripping over and spilling out too many thoughts, too many memories. What binds all the chaos in my mind, is you. It's always you.

That blue dress you wore when we went to the cinema for the first time, the one that really brought out your eyes…you, waiting to meet me at the noticeboard in the nurses' accommodation building, and the slow, precious walk to work…the magazine articles we used to read out loud to each other at break time… and you, in a hospital bed, swamped by a starchy white gown, looking through me - a complete stranger… Sister Winifred's note… and Mrs Busby's telephone call tomorrow…

* * *

I am waiting in the study ten minutes before Mrs Busby is due to call. I pace around the room for a while, unsure what to do to pass the time. Every time I glance at the clock on the wall, the hands are in the same position. I sit at the desk and switch my attention between the telephone and the clock, tapping my index fingertip against a notepad. I fidget with my uniform, ridiculously conscious about my appearance.

When the telephone eventually rings, it takes every ounce of strength in my body to remain still and let it ring three times. Each trill tremors through me, strangely fateful, like the tolling of a church bell.

After the third ring, I pick up the receiver.

"Nonnatus House, Nurse Mount speaking," I say. My voice sounds unlike me and I clear my throat.

"Hello? Nurse Mount?" I hear on the other end,"It's Mrs Busby here."

"Good morning, Mrs Busby, I'm so sorry to have missed your call yesterday,"

"That's quite all right; you weren't to know I was going to ring you." I can sense a smile on her face as she says the words. "I wanted to say thank you for your lovely letter, it really brightened my day to know that one of Delia's friends is thinking about her."

A natural pause falls between us, but I am unable to speak. I can hear so much of you in your mother's voice. I have to catch my breath.

"I showed your letter to Delia, and she was ever so pleased to see it."

I shift in my seat, swallowing hard, "really?"

"Yes…I have to tell you though, Nurse Mount, there hasn't been much of a change in her, although thankfully she hasn't had any more seizures since she left London."

I close my eyes. A wave of nausea crashes over me. You still don't know who I am.

"But, you know," Mrs Busby carries on, I hear stubborn hope in her voice, "the doctor here is still optimistic – these things can take time, can't they? We aren't giving up on her. In fact, Nurse Mount… I was wondering…"

When Mrs Busby asks me if I would like to visit, I am convinced that I have misheard her, and I have to ask her to repeat herself.


	4. Chapter 4

Hello there - once again, I want to say a massive thank you to everyone who is reading this, and for all the comments and support. **Thank you so much**.

**4**

I'm conscious of the fact that it is not so very long ago that I was last sat at Sister Julienne's desk. The circumstances are very different now. And yet, I feel that same strange sense of apprehension, a similar feeling of deceitfulness as I did when sat here, only weeks ago, justifying why I wanted to move into our flat. So before as now, I am not being entirely truthful to Sister Julienne. I would like to say that it is not easy to lie, that every untruth I tell hurts me to speak it, but it comes to me as naturally as breathing.

When I ask for permission of leave, Sister Julienne studies me for a moment. I hear the distant ring of the telephone in the study at the other end of the corridor, and Nurse Crane's answering voice, muffled when by the time it reaches us, as though she is talking into her hands.

"Nurse Mount, I think I speak for all of us here at Nonnatus House when I say that, in spite of recent circumstances, your conduct has been impeccable. You have shown exemplary character, and I am happy to fulfil your request. I will arrange for a locum midwife to take your duties at the earliest opportunity."

"I will not be away for so very long – I imagine a week or so, perhaps ten days at the most," I say, perhaps more to comfort myself that Sister Julienne.

I have longed to see you, to hear your voice, to be in the same room as you. I have felt it as a physical pain inside me, all through me, from head to toe. But now I am frightened. I'm scared that you will never recognise me, or that if you do, then it will not be as you once did. The thought that you will be changed preoccupies my thoughts, persistent as toothache. How can it be possible to want so very much to see you, to feel like I will die if I don't, and yet to fear it, to be so petrified of the very thing I crave most?

* * *

I throw myself into studying train timetables, spending hours planning my journey, enjoying the orderliness of the booklet. There is no room for emotion in a British Rail publication; here, life is stripped down, simplified to arrival and departure columns.

Barbara sits with me, providing a steady stream of tea and chat as I work. When we take a break, I watch her over the rim of my teacup as she studies the map on the back inside cover of the timetable, tracing her index finger along the jagged line of the Great Western Railway, charting my journey from Paddington to Pembrokeshire.

"Gosh, it's such a long way to go. I'll make up a flask and some sandwiches for you - it'll be much cheaper than buying on the train. And, I tell you what, I'll buy you a bag of biscuits for the journey." She says, and I give her hand a grateful squeeze.

"Do you know Mrs Busby very well?" she asks later, her head on one side.

"Not really, no." I reply, and suddenly I become preoccupied with noting down some information from the timetable.

Mrs Busby and I are complete strangers, nothing to each other. Our only connection is you. I am the old friend from London who may be able to jog your memory.

That's all.

* * *

I haven't been to Wales before.

It's been a long time since I ventured anywhere outside of London. My eyes have been dulled by the city's drab palette of concrete and asphalt, and too many shifts spent in dark, dingy terraces. And as the looming tower blocks, smoky factories and cluttered, noisy streets thin out, and the gloomy smog that hangs over London evaporates away, I have to shield my eyes against the bright, watery autumn sun. A haphazard chequerboard of lush green fields stretch out further than I can see. Clusters of trees flash in the near distance past, some still clinging on to brown, shrivelled leaves, and some already skeletal. Every so often an isolated cottage passes by, marooned in the middle of nowhere, a tiny speck on the vast landscape, the only sign of life being the wisp of smoke coming from the chimney. Wrecks of old stone buildings stand mournfully, testaments of a world long gone, spindly saplings snaking through hollow windows and exposed rafters.

Apart from an occasional cloud, thin and thready, like overstretched cotton wool, the sky is a misty pastel blue that reminds me of your eyes.

The gentle sway of the express train has lulled the only other passenger in the carriage to sleep, her knitting still in her hands, wool wound around her fingers ready for the next stitch. Every so often, something jolts her awake and she works her needles as though nothing had happened before her head begins loll again and her eyelids close.

Sitting here, my right temple resting against the glass, I am taking the same journey that you have taken, seeing the same sights that you have seen. I think about the times when you went to visit your family, and I was left in London, lonely and lovesick, moping around, restless and aching inside, counting the days until you would come back to me. When you returned, you always came to my room as soon as you had dropped your suitcase off.

"Did you miss me?" you asked, throwing your arms around my neck.

And my hands found their place around your waist as I tried to remain nonchalant, "Miss you? I barely even noticed you had gone," I said, grinning as you stood on your tip-toes to kiss me.

* * *

By the time I arrive at the station, the sky has turned a deep, burnt amber and the lamps have already been lit. As the train departs, and the plume of thick smoke it leaves behind disperses, I pick up my case and take a deep breath. The air is so fresh here, so clean, that it shocks me to breathe it in, and sends me slightly giddy.

I am the last person to leave the platform, and as I walk, my footsteps ringing in the eerie calm of the station, I tell myself that no matter what happens next, I must be brave.

I find Mrs Busby sat in the waiting room, pretending to look at a notice board. She stands up when she sees me and wrings her hands as though unsure what to do with them.

"Miss Mount," she begins. I feel her eyes skim over me and I flush, wondering what she makes of me, turning up here from the big smoke with my red lipstick and my tailored trousers. "How are you – I hope you had a pleasant journey?" she asks.

"Good afternoon, Mrs Busby," I smile, "I am very well, thank you. And please, do call me Patsy."

"Then you must call me Helen," she replies, and our mutual desire for informality seems to relax the both of us. "Well, then, shall we?" she continues, raising her arm in the direction of the exit.

* * *

I take the rest of the journey in the local postmaster's Vauxhall Victor. The postmaster, Mr Taylor, ceaselessly talks about nothing in particular as he drives, too erratically, along the twilit, narrow country roads, his deep voice droning in harmony with the hum of the engine.

I sit in the back of the car, my hands resting on my knees, politely smiling whenever the reflection of Mr Taylor's eyes in the rear view mirror meets my gaze. My suitcase rattles in the boot at every sharp twist and turn the Vauxhall makes. With every passing mile, my tidy, regimented life in London becomes more remote, and when I glance out of the window and see the jagged, irregular shadows of hills and crags, somehow sinister now in the growing darkness, panic swells in the pit of my stomach.

I do not know exactly where I am, or how long I must sit in this car, a passenger at the mercy of two people I barely know. Suddenly, I am nine years old again, filthy and starving, curled up in the corner of a cramped cattle carriage, too dark to see anything, not knowing where I am going or what will happen to me, unable to think of anything more than the constant wail of the other prisoners.

"Are you all right there, Miss Mount?" Mr Taylor chimes, his voice thickened by years of cigarettes.

"Yes, thank you."

I look down at my hands, now clenched tightly against my knees. My knuckles are white.

* * *

When Mr Taylor's car pulls up in front of your house, the handbrake squeaking as it is yanked into place, the only thing that I can see is the cosy golden glow of the downstairs windows. He leaves the motor running and the headlights on, the better to see as we make our way up to the door. His chivalry overflowing, he insists on taking my suitcase.

"You must be tired after your journey," Helen says to me as she inserts the key in the lock, "Let's get indoors and I'll make us all a nice cup of tea."

I don't think that I can stomach anything, but I nod anyway.

"Well, here we are," she continues, ushering me through the door.

And, as I walk into the cottage, there you are.


	5. Chapter 5

**5.**

A humid Monday morning in July comes back to me, and a corridor so polished that the soles of my new shoes squealed with each step I took. The habitual hospital disinfectant smell was pleasing to me on an otherwise anxious journey to Matron's office.

"Welcome to the London, Nurse Mount. Do sit." she said to me when I arrived, her glacial eyes scanning over my new uniform for any imperfections. My transfer paperwork was spread out neatly on her desk. "Your references from Guy's Hospital serve you well. I am quite impressed," she said, and the expression on her face was anything but. She did not wait for me to thank her before she continued:

"I read in your notes that you trained in mental health nursing at Warneford before moving into the city…" her index finger traced over my transfer papers," and then… posts at Hammersmith and Guy's. Three different hospitals in as many years. Tell me, Nurse Mount, is there a reason for your restlessness?"

Matron was always quick to get to the point of things. One terse sentence spoke in her clipped voice, and a pointed look over her spectacles, could cut a person to ribbons. It was an experience that everyone experienced at least once, like a right-of-passage; a girl couldn't really call herself a nurse until shehad a horror story or two about Matron to share at parties.

"I have been fortunate to work in different specialisms at each hospital, Matron. I am keen to learn as much as possible." I had spent plenty of time rehearsing an answer for my frequent transfers, crafting something to appease curiosity: something professional, something not quite the truth, but still I managed to stumble and stutter my way through it, my ears growing warm as a blush broke out on my face.

"Then I hope that our humble Male Surgical ward will be enough to keep your interest." She commented through pursed lips.

There was a knock on the door and Matron looked over my left shoulder, acknowledging the person who had rescued me from any further grilling with a nod. "That will be all for now, Nurse Mount." She said, giving my uniform one last critical inspection. "Nurse Busby will look after you from here." 

You were waiting for me in the corridor. Immaculate in lilac and white.

"You're lumbered with me, I'm afraid," was the first thing you said to me, and the words sounded like the smile on your face. You took a step closer to me and continued, "I'm Delia." 

And then you held out your hand for me to shake, just as you are now…

The bruises from the accident have faded away. You look the same Delia Busby that I met that July morning; it's only the cautious glance you exchange with your mother when I clumsily grasp three of your fingertips that gives the game away. If you were the Delia that I know...knew..our handshake would be tighter, and it would last a precious second longer before our fingers untangle.

"Hello, Patsy," you say, and I want to close my eyes and revel in the sound of your voice, the way you say my name, and the little exhilaration it gives me to hear it, even now, after everything that has happened.

The countryside suits you. A month of fresh air has left you bright and refreshed; there is something beautifully rustic about your tablecloth pattern checked dress and the way your glossy hair is casually fixed up. In comparison I feel weary and grubby, as though I am covered in a layer of London smog.

I wish that I could tell you how much I have missed you. I want to pull you close and hold you tight against me, to feel that you are real. I want to tell you so many things that I wish I had said before, when I had the luxury of your recognition.

I want… you.

"It's so nice to see you." I feel myself blushing. The tips of my ears feel as though they are glowing.

"Now, Delia, let's not stand around on ceremony," Helen takes off her coat and gestures to me to do the same," why don't you and Patsy have a sit down and I'll put the kettle on."

* * *

As the grumble of Mr Taylor's car grows distant, the silence begins to impose. It is as though the pattered paper walls are creeping closer, squeezing all the air out of the living room, and out of my lungs. The rhythm of the carriage clock on the mantle punctuates the blankness in my mind, each tick of the second hand mocking me. I have spent hours on a train, thinking of this moment and now that I am finally here, I cannot think of a thing to say.

You and I perch on opposite ends of the sofa, a gap between us that feels as wide as the English Channel. I try to remain nonchalant, all too aware that you are looking at me, as I gaze around the cosy living room. I focus on a small, eccentric collection of carved wooden animals on the windowsill ornate giraffes and lions make unlikely bedfellows with a ladybird, and owl, and what appears to be a field mouse.

After a while, you shuffle up towards me and I feel my heart pause, my insides bristle, when you say: "I remember you."

The sound of the carriage clock disappears, because all that I can hear is the sound of blood rushing in my ears. I have to clench my jaw, otherwise I am certain it would fall wide open. I have dreamed of you telling me this, only to wake breathless and disappointed and without you. I wonder if I should pinch myself, as surely I must be dreaming...

I turn to you, and note the triumphant smile, the pride shining in your eyes as you continue:

"You came to see me when I was in hospital. I remember your hair."

The carriage close begins to tick again, and I exhale a breath that I did not realise I had been holding.

"Yes, that's right," and in spite of it all, I cannot stop the corners of my mouth from forming a tired smile. You always did like my hair.

Helen Busby insists on serving tea in the most proper fashion. There is something aspirational about serving a formal tea: countless mothers-to-be, living in the worst terraces in Poplar, attest to a sense of the genteel in the china they use when a midwife calls. I sense that the floral patterned set that Helen has brought out is saved strictly for special occasions, and I feel embarrassed that she has gone to the trouble of it all. You stare through slightly narrowed eyes at the unfamiliar cups and saucers, a delicate line appearing between your eyebrows.

"It's lovely to have you here, Patsy," Helen says, one finger pressed against the lid of the pot as she pours tea into the cups.

"Thank you for inviting me. I do hope I won't be in the way."

"Nonsense; Mr Busby and I are glad you could come. Any friend of Delia's is a friend of the family, isn't that right?" she looks at you in the concerned way parents often do over their babies at clinic.

"Mum tells me that we worked together,"

"Yes,"

"At St. Davids?" You ask, your head on one side.

"No, sweetheart, that was where you did your training. After that you went to London and worked with Patsy."

"That's right," I add, taking a cue from Helen's pointed look. "We worked on the same ward, and our rooms at the accommodation block were three doors apart."

"Oh, I see," you reply. You lean forwards and gaze into the fire, your chin propped on your balled-up hand, as though the glowing coals will somehow help you piece together the fragments of information that you have just received.

"I'll bet Patsy has plenty of stories about what you two got up to in London!"

The fire pops and crackles as one of the cinders breaks into pieces.

* * *

John Busby is a shy, unassuming man whose arrival carries in the smell of pinewood and fresh air. Tiny curls of sawdust sit in his greying hair, the remnants of his day's work. Helen doesn't let him sit at the table until he brushes them out; she clicks her tongue as he disappears to wash his hands and face, but the smile she allows herself when she thinks no-one else is looking reveals that her scowl is just for show.

When her husband returns, Helen serves four generous plates of food. My stomach growls in anticipation when I think how long it has been since I polished off Barbara's egg sandwiches. Three of us begin to eat in earnest, while you examine the contents of everybody's plates. The fact your parents continue to eat suggests that this is not as unusual as it seems to me.

"So Patsy," Helen begins, taking on the mantle of conversation, "is everything all right for you in your room? It's too dark now, but do have a look out of the window first thing in the morning; if it's a clear day you can see for miles."

"I look forward to it. You live in such a beautiful village; I am quite charmed by it already." I am a mistress of dinner table small talk, well-schooled in polite platitudes from a young age. You had to be if you were a member of my family.

"It's rather different to London. I did tell you didn't I, John, that Patsy lives in a convent – with Nuns!"

John looks up from his plate to give me a conciliatory smile across the dinner table, and I see your resemblance.

"What's this?" you suddenly ask, and you look at Helen. There is something juvenile in the expression on your face, as though you need reassurance that only a mother can provide. My heart cracks a little at the sight of it.

"It's lamb stew and dumplings, sweetheart," Helen replies. You nod as though pacified, only to change your mind again:

"Do I like stew?"

"It's one of your favourites."

"Is it?"

"Absolutely."

You poke at a potato with your fork, "I… don't know…" you trail off and scratch your head and fidget in your chair.

"Why don't you have a little taste," Helen gestures. "See, your dad is tucking right in, and Patsy is too!"

I'm conscious that you watch me as I pass my fork to my mouth. Your anxiety makes me uneasy. You analyse your plate again, spending what seems like an age choosing something to eat, repeatedly looking to Helen for comfort. If John could wear blinkers, I am sure that he would; he concentrates on the food in front of him, as though to see you would be distressing. I do not blame him.

When you eventually decide on something to eat, your nostrils dilate as you slowly begin to chew.

"You see, it's good, isn't it?" Helen soothes, and I realise that this is not the first meal she has had to persuade you to eat.

* * *

Before I go to bed, I have to have a cigarette. As exhausted as I feel, I couldn't possibly try to go to sleep without it. It isn't so much the cigarette itself that I want; it's what comes with it. I do some of my best philosophising with a cigarette in my hand.

I am glad that I slipped my coat on before I went into the garden, as the night is cool. I shrug my shoulders against the chill as I fumble through my pockets, my unlit cigarette hanging from my mouth. Behind me, I hear a scratch and a fizz, and I turn to find the vague outline of Mr Busby sat on a bench, a lit match between his index finger and thumb. He holds it up to me, his other hand shielding the flame against the breeze. Once satisfied that my cigarette is burning, he shifts to allow me to sit next to him, and concentrates on lighting his pipe, taking several deep puffs to get it going.

We do not speak and I am glad of it. Our silence is not awkward. I find an easy communion with this quiet man, sensing that we are of a similar disposition. Together, we retreat into the security of darkness, becoming two glowing embers in the dark.

I look upwards and sigh out a stream of smoke. It will impress the girls back in London when I tell them about the infinity of stars above my head. The enormity of the cloudless sky is a little unnerving to a city girl like me; there is nothing to temper it, no comforting blanket of smoke. Perhaps it is unusual of me to feel uneasy about the scarcity of noise here, the absence of traffic, and the lack of street lights, but then again, perhaps I am an unusual person.

I think back to that first day at the London. You told me you had only been working there for a month. Everybody, from porters to patients and everyone in between seemed to know you. There was something about you that seemed to draw people to you, a natural, easy-going charm that was hard to dislike. I had no idea just how much I would be drawn to you as we made our way to Male Surgical, you striding confidently through the maze of identical green corridors, knowing it like the back of your hand.

I feel slightly dazed as I sit here on this bench. I've seen much in my time that would turn a person's stomach: it's my job to care for people in situations where others may baulk, and I can do it without a moment's hesitation. But it's _always_ different when the patient is personal. Seeing you today, puzzled by the simplest things - overwhelmed by a meal, experiencing your life in the snapshot of stories that people tell you, not knowing it for yourself…how must you bear it, Delia?

I've read about how head injury can change a person. Before I came here, I steeled myself with some of Dr Turner's medical journals, wincing at the harrowing descriptions, sliding into despair at the difficult prognoses I found, and clinging on to any success stories, however remote they seemed. As much as I had read, as prepared as I thought I was, I realise now that I was a fool to think I knew what to expect. You are not just words on a page, an article in a journal…

You are my everything.


End file.
